Afterwards
by DollarBill
Summary: The ultimate denial fic. Wesley? Die in 'Not Fade Away? Pah! Never! He's ALIVE, darnit!


Title: Afterwards

Author: Dollarbill

Email: 

Disclaimer: Wesley belongs to Mutant Enemies and Co. They were the very mean people who thought it'd be amusing to kill him off. Morons.

Synopsis: The ultimate denial fic. Do you _really_ think I believe Wesley died in Not Fade Away?

Pairings: hinted at Wes/Illyria

A/N: Wesley is NOT dead. That is all. Oh, yeah, and the next season of Angel will start when it always does, complete with a Buffy appearance and the good guys winning. Who says I can't do denial?

Feedback: Yes, for the love of Scruffy!Wes! feed me!

Wesley was alive.

That was his first thought.

He was alive.

His second thought was _why_.

He opened his eyes wearily, squinting into harsh brightness.

Where was he?

What had happened?

And, bloody hell, why was he _alive_?

__

Beep, beep, beep.

Hospital. He was in a hospital. He was in a fucking hospital and he was fucking alive.

Illyria.

That was his third thought.

He couldn't remember much. The fight, the battle he knew that was lost. Illyria's appearance, only seconds too late. The relief that came next… he was done… he no longer had to fight… he could take his rest…

Fred's face. Fred's face peering down at him. His head, curled in her lap. And he was ready. He was where he wanted to go. He shut his eyes, letting himself fall, content on knowing that he was dying in her arms.

Though, that appeared to not have gone exactly as he'd hoped.

He let out a little snort, suddenly realizing. No, he must not have died. He must have just fallen into unconsciousness. And, damn it all, Illyria must have brought him to the hospital.

He shut his eyes again, suddenly hyper aware of all the activities of the hospital being carried out around him. People rushing to and fro. Doctors yelling for nurses. Staff attempting to keep some semblance of order.

He heard a slight rustle in the room, and his eyes opened instinctively, though that did not help much. He was nearly blind without his glasses or his contacts.

There was a sharp intake of breath.

"Sir?"

A high-pitched voice.

Wesley tried to make an answer, but the words caught in his throat.

Being alive seemed like such a terrible burden all of a sudden.

"Sir! Sir!" the voice was nearly shrieking now. "Doctor, he's awake…"

He was aware that the person was leaving.

Wesley did not care.

He struggled to sit up, but he felt weak and tired.

Vaguely, he wondered how the rest of the fight had gone. Angel must have won to some degree—the world appeared to still be revolving.

But what was the cost?

Wesley found himself sure that Illyria had survived. She was the most powerful of them all. He doubted that she'd easily let Wolfram & Hart subdue her.

She'd be the only one that would have answers. She'd be the only one who could tell him why.

Why was he still alive?

--

He was unconscious for nearly a week.

One week.

The doctor explained, patiently, about his condition.

Though Wesley hardly listened.

He'd lost a great deal of blood, that he knew. He'd severed several veins and punctured some major organ. There were pills he now had to take, bandages that had to be replaced. He had a life-long ban against any kind of strenuous activity.

Strenuous activity.

He very nearly laughed out loud at the wording.

The doctors and nurses pumped him for information on family, friends, someone that could come and take care of him. They were puzzled as they described the blue-haired woman who had brought him to the Emergency Room. She'd carried him like he'd been nothing but a limp rag doll.

Wesley feigned ignorance, claiming that he could not remember what had occurred.

He spent long moments staring off into space, wondering. He could not remember much of his time spent unconscious, though Fred's face flitted in and out of his mind.

When he was strong enough, he ventured to the window.

Life continued on in Los Angeles. People hurried back and forth like they had no care in the world but to get to where they were going.

None of them knew.

Wesley touched his stomach with the tips of his fingers, feeling his wound pulsing underneath them.

He was done, he knew that. The Good Fight was finished for him.

What he would do next was a mystery to him.

He hated hospitals. He hated their smell, he hated the way the nurses would hurry about with fake smiles and never quite looking you in the eye, he hated the way the doctors treated you like a piece of meat, and he hated the way his throat ached every time he closed his eyes.

It seemed that the memory of Angel trying to smother him with a pillow was one of the most traumatizing of his life.

For a fleeting moment he thought about moving back to England, opening a second-hand bookstore, and living out a quiet life in the countryside.

However, he was fairly certain that way lay madness.

He was alive.

The pain he felt when he so much as drew a breath was testament to that fact. He was alive, though he did not understand exactly why, though he had been ready to go.

And he'd have to live with it.

--

When Illyria came, he was not surprised.

He'd been expecting her to show up eventually.

The doctors were encouraged by his progress. He'd be released soon, they told him. Just as soon as he filled out his insurance card.

However, she did not come with blue-hair and an outfit that looked like it had been stolen from a bad porn-flick.

No, she came looking like Fred.

That did not surprise Wesley, either.

"Wesley," she greeted, Fred's sing-song voice rolling off her lips, as she cocked her head and examined him.

He was sitting by the window, staring out into the city. Los Angeles. The city of angels.

He watched her reflection in the glass, Fred's silhouette bringing the familiar burning to his throat.

"Illyria," he said, not moving. "How good of you to drop by."

"Come on now, Wes," she said, her voice slightly cajoling. "You didn't just expect me to abandon my favourite guy, did you?"

"Why am I alive?" he asked, getting right down to the point. He would not play Illyria's all too familiar game.

She came to stand next to her. Her voice changed, becoming lower and raspier. It was Illyria's true voice.

"I was not ready to let you die."

Wesley blinked slowly, her words sinking in. "You care, Illyria," he said, slightly amused. "Welcome to the world of mortals."

"I do not like it," she said slowly, cocking her head and watching her reflection in the glass. "I do not like caring."

Wesley sighed. "Yes, I suppose you wouldn't. It makes you vulnerable in a way you have no comprehension of."

"I am glad to see that you are doing well."

"Thank you," Wesley said honestly, knowing what the display of emotion was costing her.

"The others believe you to be dead," she said, flatly. "As does Wolfram & Hart. You are free."

He turned to look at her now, his eyes travelling to Fred's sweet face.

Freedom.

"They are… Angel and the others… they are still alive?"

"Some," she answered. "Angel, yes, as is the other vampire."

Wesley took that in.

"Gunn?"

"Fought bravely," Illyria answered. "Though he was mortally injured."

"I see," Wesley replied carefully, weary of betraying too much in his voice.

It was about what he expected. No one short of supernatural could survive Wolfram & Hart's wrath.

"You must not rejoin Angel," Illyria cautioned. "He has not yet won his battle, Wolfram & Hart continue to seek their revenge. You would not last long."

Wesley resisted the urge to tell her that his own life meant very little. That everyone he had ever really loved was dead.

Lilah, Cordelia, Fred, Gunn…

Yet, he found he had no interest in re-joining Angel. He had given the vampire everything he had to give. He would be no help, now, and he found he'd already said his last good-bye.

He could disappear and no one would be the wiser for it.

"Thank you, Illyria," he said, quietly. "For… saving me."

She gave him a ghost of a smile. "You wish I had left you to die."

Wesley shrugged. "Perhaps, but I'm not. I will go on."

"What will you do?"

"I don't know," Wesley said honestly. "I'm being released tomorrow. I guess I'll go home first… pack a bag. I've heard that the Caribbean is nice this time of year."

"The Caribbean?"

"Beautiful vacation spot," Wesley said, staring out the window again. "It's been a long time since I've had a vacation."

"Alone?"

"You could come with me, if you'd like," he said, interpreting her unspoken question correctly.

"I think that would please me very much."

Ironic, he thought. The thing wearing his lover's face had gone and fallen in love with him. Illyria showed a sort of devotion to him that he hadn't encountered in anyone. Not even in Fred herself.

"No lies, Illyria. If you come along… no lies."

"You would prefer that?"

Wesley rubbed blearily at his eyes. "Fred is gone. I must continue to believe that."

"As you wish," she said.

He watched her reflection in the mirror as she shifted from Fred's form to the form she preferred to take. Wesley let out a quiet sigh as he did so. It confused him too much to see Illyria using Fred's body.

"Tomorrow then, Wesley," she said, going to the door.

Wesley turned around to watch her go. "Tomorrow."

"Wesley?"

"What is it?"

"I am… happy that I saved your life."

Wesley smiled a little, touching his punctured side. "I don't know yet if I am, Illyria."

She nodded, her eyes travelling to his wound. "Does it hurt?"

"A little."

"You are much weakened by it."

"Yes, I am."

"I will protect you, then."

Wesley made his way slowly to the hospital bed. Sitting on it with a small wince, he found Illyria's steady gaze. "I have no doubt that you will."

She watched him carefully. Apparently satisfied, she left without further comment.

Wesley lay down on the bed, cradling his injured side with care.

He stared at the ceiling blankly, wondering.

He was alive.

He was alive because Illyria had refused to let go.

He could not help but ponder if there was not a small bit of Fred in Illyria, after all. He had no doubt that if it hadn't been for his relationship with Fred, Illyria's fascination with him would have been non-existent.

Though wondering if there was some small part of Fred in Illyria that he had yet to touch was maddening and dangerous.

He said it himself. He could not live in lies.

Illyria was not Fred.

He sighed. Illyria was not Fred, but he appeared to be stuck with her, nonetheless.

Fred would just have to wait for him a while longer.

After all, he was alive.

End


End file.
